


We’ll Figure It Out. Together.

by killy0urdarlings



Series: It’s I Against I [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dissociative Identity Disorder, F/M, FUCK canon everybody lives, Found Family, Friendship, M/M, May Be Slow to Update, Trans Lavernius Tucker, everyone gets the spotlight, more relationships in future parts, no one is straight, tags to be updated and added as it progresses
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-05
Updated: 2020-11-15
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:21:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27394906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/killy0urdarlings/pseuds/killy0urdarlings
Summary: Three idiots trying out the whole “roommate” thing. Five idiots trying to work together. Idiots learning what it means to live and to love.
Relationships: Dexter Grif/Dick Simmons, Leonard L. Church/Agent Texas | Allison, more in future - Relationship, pre relationships - Relationship
Series: It’s I Against I [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2001271
Comments: 16
Kudos: 14





	1. Vibrant Shades of Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucker doesn’t know why he even tries.
> 
> If he doesn’t get some roommates soon, he’s going to get fucking kicked out, and no one seems to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> story summary mayyyy be changed at some point, not sure i’m satisfied with this one, oof.
> 
> anyway, hi! so this story is just the start of a series i have planned that explores all the trials and tribulations that may come with the gang living in a modern world, yknow? not sure how frequently this has been done, but i’m doing it anyway. this may be on the slower side to update as it depends on how easy writing comes for me
> 
> warnings for the chapter: none!
> 
> feat. caboose’s family (mom and mama are two different people)

Church wakes up, and he isn’t sure who he is. He feels like Delta, like himself, maybe like someone else entirely. Jesus, he feels sick.

He peels his eyes open, his cheek squished against the surface of his desk. He lifts his head, blinking hard and wincing at a crick in his neck. He glances at the black screen of his laptop, wondering who the fuck fell asleep at the desk, as he becomes increasingly aware of something buzzing.

His eyes trail to his phone, lying face-up near a half-finished cup of soda, its screen alight with a picture of Tex’s Murder Face, her name clear at the top. 

He blinks, lifting the phone with a shaking hand and tapping answer, pressing it to his ear. “...Hey,” he says slowly.

“Hey,” is her casual response. “Is this Church?”

He takes a moment to contemplate that. _Is_ he Church? He feels a little more like Church the more he wakes up. “Think so,” he says, and clears his throat.

Tex’s tone shifts instantly. “Hey, fucker,” she says, putting an emphasis on the _fuck._ “Did you just wake up?” 

“...Yeah.”

“I can tell,” she says, almost mocking, and it annoys him in a way, but then again… it’s Tex. He knows what to expect from her.

“So,” Church says, trying to shake away the fog floating around his brain. “You haven’t called in a while.” 

There’s a pause. “Yeah,” Tex says with a snort. “About that.”

Church stiffens, dread washing over him. 

_What does she mean?_ he thinks, mind whirring. _Did someone talk to Tex? It better not have been O’Malley, I fucking swear. Sorry. Wait, what if she just means she’s been trying to call me? Isn’t that likelier? Not really._

“What happened?” he asks slowly. 

“Io called me last night,” she says, something strange in her voice. “They said all this shit about how… you guys miss me and I need to come back.”

Church takes a deep breath, screwing his eyes shut as his head pounds. “God _. Damnit.” Io, what did you do? Sorry!_

Tex chuckles. “What?” she teases. “You don’t miss me?” 

“No,” he snaps, _way_ too defensively, and there’s a teasing nudge in some part of his brain. “I don’t miss you.”

“Well, Io does,” she notes, voice dry, and he squares his shoulders.

“Yeah, well, they don’t speak for me.” He sniffs, fixing his eyes on the smudged wall behind his laptop as he tries to ignore the way he can feel O’Malley practically breathing down his neck. It makes his skin crawl with discomfort.

Tex hums in a very disbelieving way. “Right.” She pauses. “Then Ettie came out and told me that your building’s getting shut down.”

Church’s lips flatten into a thin line, and he can envision Ettie smiling nervously. “Well, the twins have big mouths,” he says, tone carefully blank. _What next?_ he thinks. _Gonna tell her my deepest secrets? Sorry. Why would you tell her that? Sorry! Tell her to come back. We need her. No, we don’t._

“Hello?”

Church blinks, shaking himself out of his daze, tearing his eyes away from the smudged wall. “Huh?”

“I said, ‘yeah, I remember that.’” She pauses. “Dissociating?”

He scowls, trying to ignore how much it comforts him to be reminded that she gets him. “Maybe,” he says with a sniff, and the chuckle that she gives is way too fond. His free hand jerks on the table, and he’s fully aware of O’Malley’s consciousness beside his. Church scowls harder. 

“So you’re looking for an apartment?” Tex asks, something of an edge to her voice. 

Church turns to look behind him, eyes trailing over the open boxes scattered around the room. “Yeah,” he says. 

“Hm.” She’s silent for a long moment, the only sound a tapping that he assumes is her finger against her phone. “I think I got some tricks up my sleeve.”

“Yes,” O’Malley says through his mouth.

“Yes,” Church and O’Malley repeat as they fight each other to front, “yes - yea - no.”

Church winces. “No, um, I don’t -” He pauses. “Wh - pft.” He blinks hard. “What did you say?”

There’s a moment of silence.

“Is someone else there?” Tex asks slowly.

“Yes,” Church and O’Malley say together, and Church’s head begins to ache. “Just - uh.”

He presses his free hand to his face, holding back a groan as a million thoughts race through his head. _Let me talk. Fuck off. I’m talking to Tex. Switch. I don’t fucking want to._

“Church?”

His eyes find the smudge on the wall once more. “Co-conscious,” he says, stumbling slightly over the words. He shakes his head. “Sorry, uh, O’Malley’s trying to… switch.”

“O’Malley?” Tex asks, voice hardening. “Tell him I’m not fucking calling for him.”

The body scowls, and Church isn’t sure if the frustration inside is his or O’Malley’s. Probably both.

“I’m sure he knows,” Church grits out. “Give me a second.” He squeezes his eyes shut, breathing hard as he tries to push down the discontent flooding through him. “I, uh, I might -” He opens his eyes again, processing absolutely nothing that he sees. “I’m really…”

“Church?”

He closes his eyes again, just for a second.

He does not open them again.

******

Delta’s vision seems to fade in, his stomach churning. He blinks away the syrupy fog in his mind, takes a moment to orient himself. He shakes his head, wincing at a sharp throb, his vision wobbling. His hand tightens around the phone still half-pressed to his ear. He can hear Tex insistently asking, “Church? Church?”

“Hello, Texas,” he says calmly after a moment, mouth feeling like cotton.

She halts immediately, going silent for only a brief second. “...Sigma?” 

“Delta,” he corrects, eyes trailing to the black screen of their laptop. “O’Malley and Church were arguing. I had to step in.”

“Right, should’ve guessed. Sigma doesn’t usually say hello.”

That brings a dry little smile to Delta’s face. “You make it sound like he has no manners.”

“You know I don’t give a shit about manners.” There’s a smirk in her voice as she says it. “But that’s not the point here. Look, Delta, I know you’ll give it to me straight. Well - straighter than Church, anyway.” He can sense a joke hidden somewhere in there. “You trust me, right?”

“Of course,” he says. “You’ve proven yourself to us.”

“So be honest with me, Delta. Do you guys have somewhere to go?”

“Not yet, but we’re looking.” He pauses, mind running through all the possibilities of where the conversation will go. “Are you going to suggest we stay with you?”

“No,” she says quickly. “Maybe… in the future, yeah, if we get back together. That might still be a bad idea, though.” 

“I understand.”

“What I’m _suggesting,”_ she says, “is that this guy I work with keeps talking about how he’s looking for roommates. He seems pretty desperate.”

Delta frowns slightly. “I appreciate the sentiment, but we need a safe space in which we can… be ourselves. I don’t think that would be with a stranger.”

“From what it sounds like, the guy favors his privacy too. I don’t get the vibe that he’d bug you.” She pauses, then snorts. “And knowing Church, the guy would probably stay away from him anyway.”

That brings another smile to Delta’s face. “Yes,” he says, fond, then frowns again. “But it’s my job to prioritize our safety, and I’m not sure this is the best way to accomplish that.”

“Whatever, just… consider it, at least?” she urges. “At least bring it up with Church. He should get a decision, too.”

Delta frowns harder. After a long moment of silence, he sighs. “Very well. I’ll tell Church.”

“...Thanks, Delta.” Her voice is more earnest than he’s ever heard from her before. 

“Of course,” he says. “Is that all?”

“Well, real quick,” she says, “can I help you guys pack?”

Delta smiles again. “Yes, you can.”

“Then yeah, that’s all. Tell Church I said see you later.”

“I will. Goodbye, Texas.”

She hesitates. “Yeah… later, Delta.”

He hangs up, setting the phone lightly on the desk as he reaches back inside. O’Malley is angry, of course, but O’Malley is always angry, and he needs to understand that it’s Delta’s responsibility to take over when they fight.

He’ll understand, someday. Delta knows that.

For now, Delta grabs the phone, getting up and shuffling to the bed. He lies down, swiping the screen open and pulling up his Spotify playlist. 

He presses play and closes his eyes.

******

Tucker doesn’t know why he even tries.

If he doesn’t get some roommates soon, he’s going to get fucking _kicked out_ , and no one seems to care.

“How’d you do it?” he asks Vera during their lunch break, frowning down at his sandwich.

She blinks at him, pausing with her fork halfway to her mouth. “How’d I do what?”

“How’d you find Ezra and Mike?” he asks, looking up at her with searching eyes. “I can’t find a single goddamn roommate. It’s ridiculous!”

Vera gives him a sympathetic look. “You still haven’t found someone?”

“I’m meeting up with some dude today,” Tucker says, tearing his sandwich with his bare hands. “But he’ll probably be a fucking serial killer.”

“Oh, don’t be so negative about it,” Vera says, taking a bite of her mac n cheese. “I’m sure it’ll be fine,” she mumbles through her mouthful. She takes a moment to chew and swallow. “What’s this dude’s name?”

“Michael, but get this.” He fixes a stare on her. “His last name is Caboose. _Caboose.”_

Her green eyes widen. _“Caboose?”_

“Caboose.”

“Oh my god.”

“I know.”

“Hey, shitstain,” calls a familiar voice, and Tucker tenses.

“Ah, great,” Vera mutters. 

“Tex,” Tucker greets, eyes trailing nervously to the woman as she comes through the door.

Tex offers him a look like she’s straining to relax. “Got some news.” 

“Okay,” he says.

They stare at each other in a long, tense silence. Vera looks between them as she slowly chews her food.

Tex sighs, rolling her eyes. “Look,” she says, “my friend’s looking for a new place to live. You’re looking for a few roommates, right?”

“I -” Tucker bites down the rest of his defense the second her words register. He blinks up at her, lips parted with surprise. “Well, yeah, I mean, I _am_ looking for a few roommates.”

“Wanna meet my guy?” Tex crosses her arms, giving him a long, serious look.

“I - I guess so?” He says it like a question. “Who is he?” 

Tex hesitates, meeting Tucker’s confused stare, and lets out a sigh. “His name is Church. Leonard Church, technically, but he goes by Church. I’ll give you his number.”

“Well, shit,” he says, dumbfounded. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“I’ll meet your guy.”

Her tension seems to lessen at that, a triumphant smirk flitting across her face. She reaches into her pocket, slipping out a phone with a shiny black case. With a few taps and swipes, she’s flipping the phone around and practically shoving its screen in his face. He leans back just enough to see the number clearly, lifting and opening his own phone, hurriedly entering the number.

“Leonard Church. Got it,” Tucker confirms, and she pulls the phone away. “I’ll text him.” He looks up at Tex, nerves fraying a little more at her continued stare, but cracks a smile anyway. “Uh… thank you?”

She snorts. “Wasn’t for you,” she says, and then turns and leaves. Tucker watches her until she disappears from view. 

“That was weird,” Vera says, promptly reminding Tucker of her presence. His eyes snap back to her. “Did she really - I mean, did she actually just try to… help someone?”

“Fuck if I know what the hell she’s doing,” Tucker says, slowly winding up with excitement, the beginnings of a smile on his face. “Oh my god, dude, I might actually get a roommate!”

She stares at him for a moment before offering him a visibly fake smile. “Right, yeah, I’m sure Tex’s friend will be… a great guy.” She pauses, and then says, much more genuinely, “And if your meeting with this next guy goes well, you’ll have _two_ great guys.” She pauses. “But maybe you should accept it even if he’s _not_ a great guy. You’re desperate.”

“Fair point. I'll accept whoever isn’t a serial killer. But I’d rather have two great guys,” Tucker says, contemplating it. “Yeah. I think I can get down with that.”

He returns to his sandwich, mind going through a spiral of daydreams. 

He could live with two great guys.

******

It’s Caboose’s 25th birthday, and his present is the greatest of all: he gets to move out. Hopefully, anyway.

Mom reminds him not to get too excited when he brings it up at their family birthday breakfast. “Remember, honey,” she says as she wipes syrup off of his baby sister Ella’s face, “this is just the first meeting. He might decide that he wants a different roommate.”

“Oh, I know, mom,” Caboose says cheerfully. “But I have a good feeling! A very good feeling.”

“Mikey,” Daisy says, leaning across the table and gesturing for him to follow suit. He obeys, leaning forward with big, excited eyes. “I see it, Mikey,” she says, tapping at where her third eye would be. “This is gonna be the best thing that’s ever happened to you.”

His eyes grow bigger. “You really think so?”

“I don’t think so.” She winks. “I _know_ so.”

“Well, gee.” He leans back in his seat. “You know a lot, Daisy.”

“Not everything,” she says. “But bits and pieces here and there.”

“No psychic talk at the breakfast table, _please,”_ Jamie groans.

“Don’t rain on their parade, girly,” Mama reminds her gently, shooting her a look.

Jamie rolls her eyes, and Lillian snorts and says, “You’re thirty-four, Jame, quit that.” Jamie’s face goes red.

“Let’s… keep psychic talk to a minimum,” Dad says, offering them all a placating smile. 

Daisy makes a noise, eyes snapping over to him. “My abilities are _not_ like _politics,_ Dad!”

“Hey!” Lucy cuts in before anyone can continue. Everyone turns to her. “Anyone else think it’s time for ‘Boose’s presents?”

“Presents?” Caboose asks, looking to Mom. “You said my present was my new roommate.”

Her eyes widen a little bit. “Oh, sorry, hon, I was just joking.”

“Oh,” he says, “well, I won’t say no to presents.”

Lucy grins at him, brown eyes twinkling as she twists around to reach into her purse, withdrawing a small, wrapped present. She holds it out to him as the others begin to lift their own presents onto the table. “Happy birthday, Boosie.”

Caboose breaks into a lopsided grin, eagerly taking the present from Lucy. “Oh, well, gee, Luce!” A thought comes to him, then, and he turns back to Mom. “When are we having cake?”

Mom smiles wide. “Once your meeting with your potential roommate is over.”

“What kind of cake?”

“Suhpise!” Minnie shouts, and there’s a collective chuckle from the table.

“Minnie’s right,” Dad says, a warm tone to his voice. “It’s a surprise.” 

“Okay,” Caboose says, already setting his curiosity aside as he begins to tear the present open. “Is that - oh!” He rips away the wrapping paper to reveal two golden earrings with little blue roses dangling from them. “Oh my god!” He lifts the earrings, a beaming smile on his face. “Neat!”

He examines the roses, the little golden lines on the edges of the bright blue petals. An odd feeling settles in his chest. It feels like something important.

He sets the earrings carefully on a clean spot of the table and lifts his eyes to look between everyone, all his parents, all his sisters, all the presents wrapped in vibrant shades of blue.

“You know what I think today is?” he asks seriously. 

“Hold on,” Daisy says, reaching towards Caboose with one hand. She presses the tip of her finger to the center of his forehead, and an understanding passes between them. She meets his eyes, her own filled with a sudden knowing. She pulls her hand away. They stare at each other for a moment.

There’s a brief silence, during which everyone watches them closely, and then Daisy asks, “Is it the start of something great?” 

“Yes,” he says, “it’s the start of something great.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> naming caboose’s sisters was surprisingly difficult. anyway caboose is used to loving a lot of people simply because he has seventeen sisters and his parents are a polycule and this is the only truth i will accept
> 
> i WAS gonna add some notes here about church’s system, but a lot of the info i was planning on sharing is stuff that’s gonna be explained later on so i’ll hold off for now. i am SINCERELY sorry for any inaccuracy in his sections! im doing as much research as i can on DID but unfortunately it won’t be perfect . im happy to be corrected by anyone w/ more experience!!
> 
> anyway, i’ll see y’all later!!


	2. Like Victory

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He stares down at the dishes piled in the sink, his own bowl clasped tight in his hands as he practically shakes with rage. “Grif,” he says in a strangled voice. “Grif!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for the delay, my writing flow has slowed down a little bit.
> 
> anyway um... anyone else love writing red team
> 
> warnings for the chapter: canon-typical google translate spanish. i am so sorry. please correct me if you know spanish.

It’s eight A.M. on a Tuesday and Dexter Grif is currently Simmons’ least favorite name.

He stares down at the dishes piled in the sink, his own bowl clasped tight in his hands as he practically  _ shakes  _ with rage. “Grif,” he says in a strangled voice.  _ “Grif!” _

“Yeah?” Grif asks from where he sits at the table, scrolling through his phone as he eats his cereal. 

Simmons whirls around to face him, his own face blotchy red with anger. “I told you to do the dishes!”

Grif doesn’t look up at him. “Yeah, you did.”

“So why didn’t you  _ do the fucking dishes?” _

“I was gonna get around to it,” Grif says, and Simmons doesn’t believe a word of it.

“Yeah fucking right you were,” Simmons snaps. “Like I’d believe that.”

“You know what confuses me to this day, Simmons?” Grif asks, turning to him with an almost-dreamy expression. “How you saw me doing absolutely  _ nothing _ at work and  _ still  _ went ‘now  _ this  _ guy looks like a stellar roommate.’”

“I  _ thought _ we both needed a roommate, so it would be  _ logical  _ for us to move in together,” Simmons says through gritted teeth. “It had nothing to do with thinking you’d be a good roommate.”

“I think you’re  _ supposed  _ to evaluate how good of a roommate someone will be.” Grif rests his chin on his palm, raising a lazy eyebrow at Simmons. “You have no idea what you’re doing, do you?”

“Oh, and you do?”

Grif snorts. “Please. I never know what I’m doing.”

Simmons just snarls and slams the bowl into the sink. “I’m not having this conversation with you! Just do the fucking dishes!”

“But Simmons,” Grif says, “if I do the dishes now, we’ll be late for work.”

“Then do them when we get home!”

“Ah, but I’ll be so tired then.”

“Grif, you  _ little shit.” _

Grif just gets to his feet, stretching and cracking his knuckles. “Well, Simmons, it’s time for me to get dressed.” He gives Simmons a shit-eating grin. “We don’t wanna be late for work, after all.”

Simmons makes an incomprehensible noise of pure rage as Grif strolls out of the room. He whirls back around to glare down at the dishes, white-knuckling the edge of the sink.

He really thought living with Grif would be a good thing, huh?

_ (please prove him right) _

Whatever. Simmons turns away from the sink, blowing out a sharp puff of air, and heads to where Grif had stuffed their shoes into the corner.

He has work to do.

******

It’s almost time for work, and Dick Simmons is the most anxious driver Grif has ever been in a car with.

He stares at Simmons from the passenger seat, almost in awe at the way Simmons’ eyes rapidly jump between everything on the road, how tight his grip on the steering wheel is. He’s muttering to himself under his breath, and all Grif can do is stare.

He has no idea how this man functions.

“Watch it,” Simmons squeaks at a pickup truck that’s just a little too far to the right, his eyes wide and wary. Grif is thinking maybe  _ he  _ should’ve driven. 

“Relax,” Grif says, and Simmons gives him a dirty look. “No, seriously, you need to relax.”

“I’m  _ trying  _ to focus!” 

“Yeah, and you’re doing a really bad job! Someone being a little over to one side isn’t gonna kill us, Simmons.” 

“I’m just watching out for any possible danger, Grif!”

“Okay, that’s it. Pull over.”

_ “What?” _

“Pull. Over.”

Simmons blinks at Grif from the corner of his eye. He hesitates for a moment, glancing between Grif and the road. Despite his clear reluctance, he obeys, cautiously pulling to the side. They sit in silence, staring at each other for a long pause. It should be way more awkward than it feels.

“Get out,” Grif says seriously.

That seems to startle Simmons. He blinks hard, eyes darting to the road and then back to Grif. “What?”

“Get out,” Grif repeats, tearing his gaze away from Simmons’ and turning to unlock the car. He unbuckles his seatbelt, throwing the passenger door open. He looks back over his shoulder at Simmons, who’s sitting frozen in the driver’s seat, eyes wide. “I said, get out!”

Simmons starts, hand flying to the door handle. After another moment of hesitation, during which he looks at Grif nervously, he opens the door, unbuckling his seatbelt and sliding out of the car. Grif grins and climbs out himself, coming around to Simmons’ side as Simmons moves over to the passenger side. Grif plops into the driver’s seat, slamming the door shut and buckling his seatbelt. 

“Now, Simmons,” Grif says as Simmons slowly gets himself settled in, “watch and learn.”

“I’m not  _ that  _ bad a driver,” Simmons grumbles as Grif pulls back onto the road. Grif ignores him.

Grif has only been driving for a few minutes when Simmons hops right back on his bullshit.

“You’re holding it too loosely,” Simmons says.

“What?” Grif asks.

“The steering wheel. You’re holding it too loosely.”

“Well, gee, Simmons, sorry I don’t wanna strangle the fucking wheel.”

“I’m not saying strangle the wheel, I’m just -”

“Well, that’s what  _ you _ were doing.”

“No, it wasn’t!”

“Yes, it was.”

Simmons huffs, crossing his arms and sinking into the seat with a scowl on his face. 

They drive in silence for another few minutes.

“Grif,” Simmons says, eyes fixed just past Grif’s head, “he’s changing lanes.”

“I see him.”

The car in question speeds up, its blinker flashing. Grif slows down to let it in.

“Don’t slow down so much, the girl behind us -”

“She’s tailgating, yes, I see her.”

Silence.

“Watch that truck,” Simmons says, and Grif groans.

_ “I see him.  _ Will you stop?”

“Road safety is  _ important,  _ Grif!” Simmons argues. “If  _ I’m _ not watching, who is?”

Wow. He gives Simmons a brief but withering look. “I’m driving, dude, of course I’m watching!”

“But are you watching  _ closely?” _

“Of course I am!”

Simmons watches him suspiciously but says nothing more. Grif waits and waits for more of Simmons’ bullshit. Nothing comes.

Grif shoots him a suspicious look, but Simmons is just pouting. He waits another minute. Nothing.

At last, now only a few minutes away from work, the car is quiet.

Grif glances at Simmons. Simmons says nothing. He looks back to the road.

Silence.

Grif almost wishes it was like this all the time.

Peaceful. Quiet.

“Grif, he’s -”

“Oh, for God’s sakes, Simmons!”

******

It’s Tuesday morning, the sun is out, the birds are singing, his friends have just arrived at work, and Donut feels fantastic.

“What a beautiful day,” he announces to no one in particular as he helps Simmons carry ingredients. Grif is slowly, huffily arranging things in the truck as Sarge stands off to the side barking orders at the few temporary workers rushing to do their business. It is, over all, a very peaceful day.

To Donut, anyway.

“Grif!” Sarge shouts, whipping around to glare at the man in the truck. Grif stares back flatly. “Move your lazy rear and get that truck ready!”

“Sir, yes, sir,” Grif grumbles, returning to his work at an even slower pace than before. Donut smiles, setting the ingredients in the truck. “Hey, Donut.” Grif pulls the ingredients deeper into the truck to arrange them.

“Hi, Grif!” Donut greets, cheery as always as Simmons sets the next set of ingredients in the truck. “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

“Sure it is, if you think Sarge scratching his ass when he thinks we’re not looking is beautiful.”

Donut just smiles. “Hey, our asses all need a little special treatment sometimes.”

The other two stare at him.

“...Yeah, that did not sound right, Donut,” Simmons says.

“Quit yer yammering over there!” Sarge shouts. “We’ve got work to do, boys! I wanna see you grinding!”

“A little on the nose, Sarge,” Grif says, smirking, and Simmons coughs to cover a very audible laugh. Donut breaks into a grin.

“I have no idea what you mean,” Sarge says, glaring at Grif, “but if it’s coming from you, it must be something disgusting.”

“You’re right about that one, sir,” Simmons says, visibly straining not to smile. Donut finds it very endearing.

“Kiss-ass,” Grif says, sticking his tongue out when Simmons glares.

“Enough dillydallying!” Sarge commands, marching closer to them. “Grif, shut your damn mouth and get back to work!”

“Oh, shut the fuck up.”

“I will not tolerate insubordination! Finish readying the truck!” Sarge turns to Lopez, who’s standing off to the side, clipboard in hand as he checks off whatever’s on the list. “Lopez, are we almost ready to take off?”

Lopez gives Sarge a flat look. 

_ “¿Estamos casi listos para irnos?”  _ Donut translates.

_ “Si,” _ Lopez says, and immediately returns to his checklist. 

“How ready?” Sarge asks.

_ “Solo quedan unas pocas cajas,”  _ Lopez says, not looking up. 

“Lopez says only a few boxes left,” Donut translates, and Sarge nods, satisfied.

“Good,” Sarge says, voice lowering. “Now those dirty event planners won’t have any ammunition to use against us.”

“All due respect, sir,” Simmons tries, “but I don’t think the planners have anything against us.”

“Simmons?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Shut up.”

Simmons lets out a weary sigh. “Yes, sir,” he says, sounding more than a little dejected. Donut reaches out and gives him a quick pat on the shoulder. 

“Don’t worry, Simmons,” Donut says, “I agree with you.”

Sarge glares at him. “Donut, I will not tolerate your agreement with Simmons!”

“Oh, I know, Sarge. Not everyone likes a challenge.”

“I do love a challenge,” Sarge protests. “But not from my own employees!”

“But Sarge,” Grif says, giving him a faux-innocent look, “you make it so easy for us to annoy you.”

“Us?!” Simmons squawks. “I am  _ not  _ annoying!”

“Well, Grif, you make it so easy for me,” Sarge starts, ignoring Simmons,  _ “to wish you were dead!” _

“Yeah, piss off, old man,” Grif says with a snort.

“Why I oughta -”

As they bicker, Donut turns to look at Lopez. The man is just standing there, watching them, a sour look on his face, and Donut can’t help but wonder what’s going on in his head. 

But Lopez is nothing if not a man of few words.

Shaking his head, Donut turns his attention to the sky, deep and blue above him, white clouds misted across it.

Standing here, watching birds fluttering about, listening to his coworkers arguing, a feeling similar to hope building in his chest, Donut thinks it’s a beautiful day.

******

Lopez has worked many catering jobs in his life. Too many, really. But out of all the jobs he’s worked, - catering or otherwise - he hates this one the most. Never, not once in his life, has he ever hated a group of people as much as he hates these people. 

When Vic had first interviewed him, Lopez had been perfectly fine with the fact that he would probably have to speak English. It was after the interview, when Vic Jr. had introduced him to Sarge, that Lopez realized the gravity of his mistake.

“We’re the best caterers in this place,” Sarge had said, chin lifted with pride before his eyes narrowed. “And we work with the most dastardly event planners I’ve ever met.” He’d chuffed, lifting one hand to stroke his white beard. “Those planners are always looking to make the event outdo the catering. They’re watching us… closely.” His face turned grave. “Watch your back, son. Always watch your back.”

At the realization of exactly how unhinged this man seemed to be, Lopez, panicking, looked him dead in the face and said,  _ “No hablo ingles.” _

Vic Jr. had given him a strange look but took it in stride. “I thought - oh, well, that’s okay, duderino, we’ll find someone to translate. Or should I say,  _ encontraremos a alguien para traducir.  _ My diddly-dude.”

And then Lopez was plunged into his own personal hell.

Everyday. Everyday he wakes up and pretends not to know English just to escape Sarge’s attention. It doesn’t save him from the tirades, or the weird insults that Sarge thinks he doesn’t understand, but it does, for the most part, save him from any outsider thinking he’s like them. And from any of them trying to rope him into one of their godforsaken conversations.

Except for Donut.

Franklin Delano Donut. The only one who can understand him, and of course he has to be the friendliest. Always going out of his way to include Lopez, to talk to him. Simmons does the same thing, kind of; he addresses Lopez in conversations and asks him questions. Donut has to translate, of course, but Simmons seems content with that. 

Lopez does not like Simmons. He does not like Donut, either. They are both extremely annoying.

But he hates them a little less than Sarge and Grif.

Why Lopez hates Grif, not even he knows, because Grif doesn’t  _ do _ anything. He just sits around all day, doing the bare minimum of work, but Sarge’s hatred for Grif is almost contagious. Lopez could almost feel bad for hating him.

But Sarge.

Sarge is the bane of Lopez’s existence. He can’t even put it into words.

Of course, all that hate goes nowhere, and Lopez is still here, today, checking off all the items on his list as he blankly watches Donut and Simmons continue carrying ingredients to the truck while Grif and Sarge bicker. It is, in every way, hell.

“Alright, Grif, that’s enough out of yer sorry mouth!” Sarge barks, cutting off whatever Grif was about to say next. “Get back to work!” Grif just rolls his eyes.

_ “He terminado,”  _ Lopez interrupts, holding up his now finished list. 

“Lopez says he’s finished,” Donut translates, and Sarge lets out a pleased  _ hmph.  _

“It’s about time! Men, are you ready to go?” Sarge asks, raising his chin proudly.

“Always, sir,” Simmons says.

“Yeah!” Donut says.

“No,” Grif says.

“Excellent!” Sarge shouts, ignoring Grif’s answer. “Now…” He lowers his voice. “We’re gonna go and be the best goddamn caterers in this town.”

“Right, sir!” Simmons agrees. 

“Can you smell that, men?”

“Yes, sir! … Smell what?”

“It smells,” Sarge says, “like victory.” Donut cheers as Simmons blinks at Sarge. Lopez watches Grif climb down from the truck and discreetly slip something into Simmons’ pocket. “Now come on, ladies! Let’s get catering!” Sarge starts for the van. Lopez turns to follow him slowly, robotically. 

As Sarge unlocks the van, Lopez’s eyes trail to the writing on the side.

_ BLOOD GULCH CATERING,  _ it reads.  _ The finest catering service in town! _

Sure. The finest catering service, run by the biggest assholes. Lopez hates them so fucking much. 

Sarge catches him looking. “Now see here, Lopez,” he says, “that says ‘the finest catering service in town.”

Lopez stares at him blankly, waiting for the moment that Sarge realizes Lopez can’t understand him.

That moment does not come. Sarge just opens the van and climbs into the front seat. Lopez narrows his eyes.

Donut smiles at him, gesturing for him to follow. Lopez just grumbles and climbs inside, the others following. 

Sitting here, in this van, squished between Grif and Donut as Simmons takes the passenger seat, Lopez realizes exactly how much he hates his fucking life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> guess who the event planners are (or is... for now).
> 
> also i couldn’t get the concept of lopez being the only sane one and pretending not to know english just to get some respite out of my head. and i loved the thought of him occasionally slipping up and answering without something being translated but no one realizes because they’re all category 5 idiots.


End file.
